The last bees form a cloud that fills
the sky. One dies and then
another, little motor of the brain
kaput. One by one they fall,
humless against the street
below. Children step from doorways,
jacketed and booted, doing the work
of rain, turning soft earth beneath trees.
If I call you honey is it sweeter
by the property of scarcity,
or am I tying knots by the window
before you set to work putting
flowers to sleep? Bee-rain
patters through the day. Children gather
handfuls and try to place them back
into the sky, defied. If I try to place you
in the sky, is it stringing the knowns to the knowns?
It is kinder if you turn my hands
to all of the rooted things. The last
bees quiet on the street, the grass, the rooftops,
and the children wade home for dinner.
We move to stand closer together. Honey, I say,
and it is sweeter or it isn’t.